We struggle to remember
what we came up for – spaghetti or air –
who our neighbour said was coming
to fix what, the conifer we’ve just planted.
We watch too much Netflix, play
word games online when we should be asleep.
We cast off covers, cast them
on again, force ourselves to rest upright
as the moon purrs on its orbit
like our husband beside us. Out of sight
is the name of our daughter’s best friend,
in full view the moon sliding down the hill,
the sun in the pill that rises each morning
from its blister pack. We drop them
into little boxes for days of the week,
chalky with possibilities. We wait
for the words to kick in,
for our minds to soften under the earth.
Months pass. Years. It’s dark down here,
and clammy. We strain to read
by the bedside lamp, cast off covers
to fetch a fresh bulb, climb the stairs, struggle
to remember what we came up for –
some light or our names.
